Goodbye, Je t'aime, Mother
by Blood of Alice
Summary: Sometimes, they pretend not to see something they know is there. And gladly they do so, blocking out the gentle calls in a language they have long since forgotten, lost in a childhood where this phantom was sadly not a part of. But the ignorance has grown tiresome, and so he decides to finally confront this gentle ghost, regardless of consequence. *one shot*


Head canon: Sometimes I see her, calling out my name in a language I was made to forget - America

Okay, so, I found this a while ago, and it inspired some sad art, and now this story. He's talking about his mother, Native America. If anyone here remembers their history, the entire ordeal with the Natives and the Anglos led to the basic death of most of the culture and traditions of the Natives, and I don't think there's currently anyone who fluently speaks the native languages. Neither does America.

However, considering he and Canada are brothers, Canada being older as a colony and America older as a nation, I will just assume this means she was his mother as well (I mean, they're brothers, they've got to have the same Mum, no?), though I know very little of Canadian history (which fucking blows, but I digress), so I can't say much for the Canadian Natives, sadly.

I found this to be really fucking sad, because they had so little time with their mother before they were swept away by European customs, language, and ideals.

For me, I believe she no longer exists as a person, but as a phantom, an echo of a time that became slowly muffled and struggles to keep alive. And so here's what this head canon inspired. Enjoy~

Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers: Hetalia, even though I'd love to at least have my baby Russia *sniffles* I don't claim ownership over the head canon I found, either. All I own is the plot.

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Chapter 1

He didn't understand. He couldn't, realistically.

During meetings, America pretended not to notice. He kept up appearances, still babbling, still ranting, still being the hero. He'd gotten very good at turning a blind eye to what was so obviously there to see. A little too good, though.

No one realized how tormented he was. No one, except his quiet brother, equally troubled, equally forcefully ignorant to what was so blatantly obvious for them.

Neither could stand it, because neither could act so long as the rest were there to see them. And it was killing them.

America had no idea what he was going on about. He just knew he had to keep talking. America knew the nations would soon become annoyed with his nonsensical babble, shut him up, and adjourn the meeting.

Then he and Canada could go home, and maybe it would end.

They both knew it wouldn't.

Now, England was yelling, then France was instigating, then there was chaos. Soon, Germany was yelling, and the meeting was ended. Nations dispersed, going their separate ways, and Canada was pulled along with the current.

Now Alfred was alone, with the phantom he could no longer ignore.

She stood a few yards away from him, silently watching him, her presence both comforting and painful.

She was absolutely beautiful. Her skin was dark, her shining black hair long and straight, falling gently to her waist. Her bangs, even and straight, covered her thin brows and fell just above her eyes, a soulful light brown, framed by dark, full lashes. Her face was a soft oval in shape, cheek bones high, nose straight, lips set into a line. She was petite and rather short, but nonetheless majestic for it, her body full of soft curves, not too thin nor too thick, hands small and delicate, feet just as small and just as bare. She wore a tanned, loosely body-hugging dress that dipped like a heart at her small bosom, and stopped halfway down her thighs.

And she always held about her form a sad and yearning aura, her eyes and lips expressing a sadness too deep and too vast for him to understand. The woman never truly approached him, but simply hovered around him, as if waiting for something.

Now, alone with this ghost, without the eyes of blind men to judge him, he gained the courage to speak to her for the first time since she had appeared.

"Who…who are you?"

That simple questioned seemed to strike her deeply. A forlorn smile curved her lips, reaching her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was soothing, triggering something within him when he heard it, remembering a memory too old and too fuzzy to relive.

And yet...

He couldn't understand a single word she said. But her words, foreign and strange, moved his own confused heart, bringing a terrible yearning and love for this woman that brought tears of frustration and pain to his eyes, a blue sea threatening to overflow.

Seeing him so distressed, she approached, cooing to him in a language he could not remember and did not know, her hand, transparent and insubstantial, ghosting over his face, a caress that was like a sweet, warm, familiar wind, meaningful but cruel, because he could not fully feel her love through air, could not feel her at all.

"Tell me," he whispered brokenly, trying desperately not to cry. "Who are you?"

Again her lips moved, but nothing again was understood. Now her hands and arms moved, pointing first to him,

_You_

and then mimicking a cradle with her arms, rocking them as though she would rock a newborn babe;

_Baby_

then, she pointed to herself, palm flat to her chest, in the possessive.

_Mine_

Tears fell freely then, as he understood.

This woman here, this tiny, petite, fragile, strong, majestic creature, native to the land and the personification of the indigenous of the land, was his and Canada's mother.

"Mother, mother, mother," Alfred repeated again and again, just as little Canada walked in. Both he and his mother turned to the approaching, wary Canadian.

The woman -their mother- extended an arm, including her second child to their reunion, her smile, though radiant in her joy at being recognized by one of her sons, still holding within it a shadow of sadness. The shyer brother drew closer, the same feelings America had felt before realizing it was their mother that stood before him flaring in his own heart.

"Who…?" Canada asked, towering over her even if he was petite and small in his own way, amethyst eyes searching.

She did not wait for Alfred to say it for her, and he did not want to say it for her. She repeated the motions one more time -you, baby, mine- and violet eyes filled with purple tears, lip quivering, joy and sadness and yearning and pain and so many other emotions bursting through his heart and down the tears that fell down his cheeks.

Mother and her children, separated, only to be reunited and yet not, together after being apart for so long and yet not. As she once more cooed to them lovingly in her broken language, the various tongues of her people pouring out in her words, the language they had been made to forget, they felt their hearts break and mend, sink and fly.

This was the mother they were, in many ways, denied. The mother whose love they had always craved, but were never given, the mother they knew themselves to have, but never knew had been physically alive the entire span of their childhood. The mother that was now suffering the same fate as those personifications who had lost their land, their people, the freedom of their language, traditions, cultures.

Her form flickered, and they felt the finality of her fate. She was fading away, the spirit of her people, strong as it may be, too small to keep her alive. They had deteriorated far too much to come back, too much to live again in a world that had forced them to disappear and did not give them the tools and opportunities to revive and live again.

This was a hello, and at the same time a farewell. She would never reappear again. They may feel her presence in the future, but never again would she be visible. She would only be a muffled echo, singing softly to them so long as her people never forget her and their origins.

So long as America and Canada, both as her children and as prospering nations, never forget their mother and never forget her history, her importance, her role in their past, present and future.

Her lips pressed themselves to their foreheads with the unconditional and vast love only a mother could have, and though there was no pressure, there was an unmistakable warmth that bloomed were she kissed her beloved sons, as real as anything else.

A kiss of love, a kiss of goodbye.

Their mother stepped back, looking at them, drinking them in thirstily, imprinting the images of them, her children, grown and thriving and _alive_ and well in her mind before her time was up, before she went away.

Through her own tears and beautiful, beautiful smile, her lips formed a loving phrase of farewell, speaking two distinct names in her language that both brothers knew belonged to them, but could not say, as her formed dimmed, flickered, and fell away to nothing.

And there was a tender, sweet-smelling wind that came to be as she died away, caressing their faces and teasing their hair, warming them in its gentility, a last motherly embrace that called forth distant memories of their caring mother before they, too, faded away, back into the furthest corners of their minds.

For the longest time they stood there, Alfred's arm around the smaller man's shoulder, Matthew's arm around the bigger man's waist, as they cried and cried softly, their tears endless rivers, their soft gasps and sniffles a quiet echo in the empty room that fell away, unheard except by them, just like the mother they found and lost a second time.

Goodbye, goodbye.

I love you, mother.

Au revoir, au revoir.

Je t'aime, mère.

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**A/N:** I'll say this right fucking now: I feel really messed up for writing this. I love the nations, I really do, but the fact that I can write sad stories so easily tends to screw them over. Even my own OCs don't escape this. I blame this on the head canon though x(

Anyway, please, leave a review! Tell me what you all think. Constructive criticism is always appreciated.


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